


Lay of the Land

by pronker



Category: Penguins of Madagascar
Genre: Aftermath, Bar, Complete, Guatemala, Multi, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-24 17:47:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30075987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pronker/pseuds/pronker
Summary: Kowalski and Skipper discover the lay of the land on a perilous mission to Central America.
Relationships: Kowalski/Skipper (Madagascar)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 2





	1. Chapter 1

Title: Lay of the Land

Author: pronker

Rating: M

Era: At the tail end of the early mission in Guatemala in which agent Xochi met her fate.

Warning: Darkfic.

Summary: Kowalski and Skipper discover the lay of the land on a perilous mission to Central America.

IOIOIOIOIO

Kowalski was never sure that it was rain and not tears that dampened his commander's face as the two of them tramped down that Guatemalan street. "Shit, Kowalski, the way this rain is falling, I'm not getting my rocks off tonight," Skipper griped. "Nobody would come out in this. I'll need to jack off and I am _sick_ of that. There's prolly no bokbier in this joint, either, only some shit like Bud or Miller Lite - "

"Steady as she goes, sir. Lucky for us there are bars close to the ship. Let's try this one and think positive because it may carry something tasty like a Ginger Shandy from the Carib Brewery. Oh, and say no to any Humboldt penguin ladies."

"Crud biscuits, _any port in a storm_ is just _one_ of my mottos, Kowalski."

"Trust me on this one, sir."

"Why?"

"Because Humboldt penguins eat wiggly fish."

"So do we!"

"Oh all right, I'll just come out and say it - their tongues have spines to secure a fish before they swallow it."

"Shit."

"Indeed. We don't want that, do we?"

"Correctamundo. Ouch."

The skipper of a beaten down squad of commando penguins thrust open the door of the _Pajarito Dulce_ bar. He gestured another, taller penguin into a dimly lit interior that was filled with smelly smoke. Music frazzled fuzzily through the antiquated sound system. The light was brightest at the long bar. Two blue herons were sitting at this windowed end of the bar and a gaggle of three B-girls of the ashy-headed goose species plus one other - was that a _poc?_ \- held down the farther end. The taller penguin guided his skipper by the elbow to a table when the commander stumbled in his weariness. It was a near thing which of the two looked the most traumatized.

Kowalski beheld tables to the right in more darkness, which were occupied by a mixed flock of birds leading watery lives. Penguins took up the center, with the cranes, egrets and eider down ducks in the front corner of the room nearest the window. Canvasback ducks squatted in the deeper corners. B-girls were working the floor. One Humboldt penguin was leading a grebe through a beaded-curtain door at the back of the room, and two Humboldts draped on guys — one sporting a naval uniform cap — on the small dance floor.

This was probably as busy as this bar got. It was a Saturday night near the docks where a ship repair facility was located. In years to come, Skipper would not remember the actual name of the port city, which was Champerico, but only the more populous city of Retalhuleu twenty-seven miles up the Samalá River that they swam down earlier in the day; at times he confused it with Sonsonate, which was in a whole nother _country._ Kowalski never corrected him because he himself avoided thinking of their circumstances and why they came to seek solace in sex.

More waterbirds than usual populated the bar, as they rested during their spring migration up and down the Pacific Flyway. The commando squad departed from _Los Estados Unidos_ six in number; Kowalski knew that Skipper reviewed the team's membership of six of two weeks ago and how it had swelled to seven upon meeting Xochi and then shrunk once more to six. That had to hurt. Getting his rocks off on this last night ashore before their departure tomorrow could only be a good thing. Their repaired freighter departed at dawn after typhoon damage, an out of season typhoon that cost them time because when they dried themselves off from their river swim, each of them yearned to leave Guatemala far, far astern.

Kowalski did not care if he got his own rocks off; he did care about Skipper.

Skipper and Kowalski were bosom buddies—but not in the sense, they insisted to each other, of some penguin commandos who were young, virile, and randy but stuck on missions for long periods of time with no one to hook up with but each other. Skipper had yet to become a grizzled veteran teaching at his old OCS yet Kowalski just knew it was in his future. As for himself, Kowalski boasted that he could provide options for anything.

The two of them had never been tested to their full potential until now.

They'd been together from on-the-job commando training to covert assignments after Skipper's stint in OCS and went everywhere as a subset inside their team, each watching the back of the other.

They were so close that there had been speculation about them from the other units, but if they'd heard it, Skipper and Kowalski had pretended they didn't. And it never prevented them from sharing a female when it came to getting relief, although, in these rare instances, it was pretty much sloppy seconds for one or the other. Neither kept count of who followed who.

Both were fine looking, trimmed out, and muscular. Vigorous exercise and perilous missions ensured the trimmed out and muscular aspects.

Both were randy as hell and made it only as far as the _Pajarito Dulce_ , nearly within sight of their ship. They had waited with the rest of their team, observing covertly the ship's repair that competent workers completed just before dark. The six penguins decamped near the empty crate selected for their own disguised conveyance back to the States until Skipper couldn't stand the inactivity any longer. Private watched over a shellshocked Rico who watched over a griefstricken Private and an uncharacteristically silent Manfredi and Johnson watched over them both. After a terse "Hold position," Skipper staggered away from his command with a look that Kowalski had never seen before. Kowalski hollered, "Hey, wait up!" and then followed.

Twenty minutes later, here they were.

Skipper and Kowalski bellied up to the bar and ordered brews from the hefty emperor penguin who tended. He had a friendly look for them but obviously was capable of a mean look because he doubled as the bar's bouncer. He had an anchor etched on the steel that comprised one third of his left flipper. The three fell into a comfortable chat comparing service records.

"Speaking of service," Skipper said. "Any action around here tonight?"


	2. Chapter 2

The barkeep inclined his head toward the female end of the bar without looking there. "Take your pick. An _Americano_ twenty on the bar top gets you beyond the beaded curtains with one of them with me looking the other way and then it's up to you and them. If you pay more than twenty for a blow or fifty dollars for a ride, you've been taken. And you should know —"

The whiskey soaked voice didn't finish that sentence as the herons at the front end of the bar had suddenly discovered a thirst that had to be serviced right now and that, after all, was what the bartender was here for.

While he was gone, Skipper and Kowalski took a look around, but the only free dollies were those four at the back end of the bar. Two of them were talking to each other across the two in the middle. One of the quiet ones caught Kowalski's eye, though, and rose off her stool and sauntered on up the bar to the two penguins.

"Two hunks like you shouldn't be in here all by your lonesomes," she said as she got to them. "Buy a girl a drink for some company? You two in some country's service? Let me guess ... the Ewe Ess of Ay?"

Kowalski rolled his eyes at the ashy-headed goose. They owned the swagger of the service in every glance and syllable. And they could almost see the vessels in dry-dock from where they were sitting. Of course they were in the service. But then his eyes were rolling for another reason. The female fluttered her remiges on his crotch.

"Sure, I'm Popeye One and he's Popeye Two," Skipper answered for them, moving over a stool so that she could perch between them.

"A drink for the lady. Another one of whatever she was drinking," Kowalski croaked to the bartender, who appeared with a frozen daiquiri within a few minutes. Both birds leaned into one elbow on the bar top and gave their full attention to the B-girl. Each of them had a flipper groping low on her hip on either side. She didn't bat an eyelash.

She had eyelashes to bat, too. She was a slurry of neutral beige tones, which on her had arrived at high cheek bones, a smooth bronze coat of feathers on her breast bordered by an ash gray head and legs, a lovely oval face, and a long, silky black crest of feathers on her crown, which Kowalski assumed to be an applied extension. Every now and then she would flounce the crest before patting it with her wing and when she did that, she exposed forest green shimmery feathers under her scapular feathers. Yes, she was perfect for this night because she was beautiful. Skipper would drown in her beauty and briefly forget the snakebit mission. The team needed him to forget because although Kowalski hadn't ambitions to be lieutenant, he wouldn't say no to a promotion, either; he simply didn't want to face the decision yet.

Most of all, he wanted Skipper to be himself again, because he had to lead and because Kowalski realized in his heart of hearts that he himself was a beta and not an alpha male.

After each flounce, the beauty kept her wings moving above the bar top and touched each of them here and there to make them hyperventilate despite commando training on how to be covert. Bright red adorned her wingtips that matched the color ringing her beak. Her eye shadow was a luminous deep violet with sparkles in it, which brought out the same color and quality of her eyes. She was a lovely bird, however you looked at it and whatever her species.

"You two stick together like glue?" she asked. It was evident to all three of them that she was fishing on whether this was leading up to something in sequence or a threesome.

"Usually," Skipper answered. "Do you mind?"

"Not really," she answered, "but maybe one's enough for starters."

When he delivered more drinks, the bartender said, "This here's Tracy. I think you should know—"

But whatever he might have said was cut off by Tracy cupping Kowalski's chin, lightly brushing her scarlet alula at the soft tissue of his throat while she came in for a kiss. A satisfied sound rumbled from the depths of his belly as his flipper went down to her plump butt cheek and squeezed. Skipper did the same with the other cheek when Tracy turned her head and gave him a kiss, dispensing equal time.

"Guess this is my lucky day," Tracy said when she came up for air. "Two hunks out on a drippy night like this."

"Speaking of weather and _snow_ ..." Skipper said.

"The night's for partying," Kowalski continued bravely; he'd never gone this far down the drug route, although he didn't need to be Little Mister Truth Teller and confess all to his skipper. He was 99.9% sure Skipper never had traveled the road this far, either, but desperate times called for desperate measures. The pain they both felt after hellish loss needed _something._ "We're new in town. You know where we can get some? To share, of course."

"Of course," Tracy said, drawing their attention to three Australian swans sitting at a table in the back corner of the bar. "A couple of Franklins should get enough to give you two courage to handle little ole me. I can do the deal."

"Don't need no courage to take you on, girl," Kowalski said as he channeled Manfredi or Johnson, it didn't matter which.

"But snow would make it more fun," Skipper added. Kowalski disagreed, but he felt in his bones that Skipper needed all the comforting that life could hand him tonight. Returning from a failed mission except for one teensy scrap of intel that veterans Manfredi and Johnson scared up, the murder of Xochi when no evidence surfaced as to her killer, had to be a bear to report to the Big Boss when they got back to Central Park Zoo.

They watched as Tracy went to the back corner of the bar and came back with five packets of white powder.

Skipper and Kowalski each had already taken out an extra twenty over what would be needed for the drinks and a generous tip and laid the bills on the bar top.

"Who's first, or were you still thinking—?"

"Kowalski can be first," Skipper said, with his rare smile. "Rank takes privilege and smaller to larger. Just tickle her with your tackle, bud, to break her in for me."

"Braap you," Kowalski said. But he was smiling; they bantered like this often when Rico and young Private and the raunchy Manfredi and Johnson weren't within earhole shot and truth was truth anyway. He didn't turn down the offer to go first as he eagerly followed Tracy through the beaded curtains, a flipper cupping one of her butt cheeks.

IOIOIOIOIO

Kowalski was sitting, feathers ruffled, on a vinyl loveseat in a small room behind the bar. There was a single bed against the other wall, in case they needed that. His legs were spread and Tracy had turned up his heat by dragging her scarlet wingtips over his chest and complimenting him on his hard-bodied torso. She knelt then between his legs, facing a coffee table. She lowered her head and sniffed up a line of the coke set out in rows on a sheet of white paper. One row already was gone, up Kowalski's nostrils. As a scientist, he prepared his mind for the rush. As a first timer with coke, it took him where he wasn't certain he wanted to go because he already could taste sound.

He leaned over and put his flippers around her, finding that her feathers were just as soft to the touch as they looked. She sighed as he rubbed her breastbone. Taking one flipper away briefly to brush the side of her face, he buried his tongue in the hollow of her neck before returning his flipper to squeeze and work her chest. As she turned her face to him, he eagerly infiltrated his beak into hers for a deep kiss. Perfume - was that a classy Chanel Number Five? - drenched his senses. An inner voice whispered that it was the coke that made her smell better than anyone else he had ever smelled.

Coming out of the kiss, Tracy put her wings over the flippers on her chest and moaned passionately before leaning over the coffee table and taking in another line of the coke. After sniffing it up and brushing her beak with long, scarlet-tipped appendages, she swiveled around, facing him, still kneeling between his thighs. Her face turned up and his turned down into another kiss as, slowly, methodically, she pulled his cock out of the feathers of his rippling abdomen.

He was big, erect, hard and that was all the sweeter to him because he had unselfishly, honestly, not cared if he got laid. She groaned to denote she respected the size of him, and his cock did a little lurch in appreciation for how she rubbed it, ran her pinions down the sides of it, and brushed it against her cheek before opening her red-rimmed beak over it. She took it to its root into her throat. It was Kowalski's turn to groan. She hummed with it in her throat, pulling a gasp out of him at the vibrations buzzing his dick.

If his banter with his buddy suggested that Kowalski was the smaller of the two, then she must know she was in for quite a ride later. He knew he himself owned enough to stretch her but good.

She supplied and applied the condom and said that she wanted it in the ass. Standing and leaning over the coffee table to snort another line, she lifted her tail and wiggled its retrices, encouraging Kowalski to bury his face between her butt cheeks.

Ten minutes later, she was riding his cock, facing away from him and crouched over his lap while taking him to the hilt in long strokes. To share the feels better, Kowalski reached down from her chest. He attacked her crotch with both flippers plunging between her legs.

He froze, ripped out a rare, _serious_ curse and then jerked, making to rise. Tracy gripped his flippers hard and gasped, "No, might as well keep it up. We're almost done here, and you paid to get off."

IOIOIOIOIO

Kowalski stumbled out from behind the beaded curtain and might have said something, but Skipper was right there, ready for his turn. Tracy's wing darted through the curtain, her grip lassoing Skipper and pulling him into the darkness beyond.

Kowalski shrugged and walked, none too straight, back to the bar.

"Here, you probably need this," the bartender said, plunking down a fresh beer, giving Kowalski a sharp "Are you going to make trouble?" look and then going to the window end of the bar to jaw with the blue herons there. Kowalski, still in a haze from the line he'd snorted and from what he'd discovered, showed he was subdued by plotzing onto a bar stool to stare at himself in the mirror.

Twenty minutes later, Skipper came out of the back room and waddled up to the bar. The two birds looked at each other in the mirror behind the bar, not facing off directly. The bartender came over and plopped a Bud Lite in front of Skipper.

"Well, hell," Skipper said, at length.

"Yupperdo," Kowalski answered. Both took several swigs from their beers before either spoke again.

"It was a he, not a she," Skipper said in a small voice and in such a way that maybe Kowalski didn't know and was just now getting the word.

"Yupperdo," Kowalski repeated. "A real good lay, though."

This time Skipper turned to look at Kowalski, face to face. "You knew and braaped him anyway—whatever they're called?"

"Yep. The scientific term is transvestite. Whatever. They've all got holes and can be fun. This one—Tracy—was great. Don't tell me you didn't know before you went back there with her."

Skipper gave him a confused look.

Kowalski laughed in a state of high nerves because he couldn't bear to let his commander know this was his first time with a tranny, with _any_ male. "Well, braap."

"You braap males?" Skipper asked, his voice as ghastly as the expression on his face.

"Any port in the storm, good buddy," Kowalski said before taking a lengthy swig of his beer. "A hole is a hole and, as you knew when we came in here, I had a raging hard on to match yours." A coke-fueled lie, Kowalski? Have you lost _all_ your filters?

"But -"

"Which wasn't being satisfied by anyone else." Kowalski hit Skipper with a meaningful look.

"I didn't know," Skipper said in a quiet voice. "If I had -"

"Hey, look, Skipper. Did you think I was hanging around you so close because you didn't say not to? And you did the same with me? Science says the probability of our getting _together_ -together is high, like, like eighty-six percent." _How_ in the world had he pulled this figure out of his fundament? It sounded good, though. It sounded _true._

Skipper didn't answer. He looked down at his lap rather than directly at Kowalski or even at Kowalski in the mirror. Kowalski rested a flipper on Skipper's thigh and Skipper didn't shrug it off.

"Been waiting for you, bro," Kowalski whispered, daring to voice thoughts he meant to bury forever. "You gonna keep me waiting? I'm still, you know, way horny enough. Coke does that to me." He knew that _now,_ of course.

"I ... I didn't know." Skipper played with his drink. "I got my rocks off. I'm surrounded by coffee beans and container ships showering coffee onto the world. Why isn't it enough? What's _left?_ "

Kowalski had no answer for the anguished question that tasted black with despair.

''I wonder if there are any cheap hotels around here, or, or maybe an alley?" Skipper said, in almost a whisper. His pupils showed the smallest ring of blue that Kowalski had ever seen. He supposed his looked the same.

"There'd better be, good buddy. There braaping well better be." He'd dropped the _braap_ bomb more times tonight than in his entire life.

"One thing, Kowalski," Skipper said. "This Tracy episode. I really don't want this ever mentioned again."

"Beaks are sealed, sir," Kowalski said, with a smile. "Let it never be mentioned again. Now come on out into the night and let's find us that small hotel."

"In a minute. Kowalski, Xochi was alive twelve hours ago."

"Yes, she was and we'll grieve for her eternally, I think. At least Rico will."

Kowalski sipped his Miller Lite. Skipper grabbed his Bud Lite, drew back his flipper and looked like he was about to fire the mug into the mirror. "I made the wrong decision! I deserve to be court martialed!"

Kowalski took the mug from a nerveless flipper and watched his commander fall apart. "She died, she made a wrong call, too, and got made. All of us will speak out at your hearing, sir."

"My fault! Mine! It happened _on_ _my watch!_ " A ragged sob ripped from Skipper's throat and the barkeep seemed to come from nowhere.

"Hey now!" He rapped sharply _one two three_ on the bar with his steel flipper. Only a few heads in the bar turned.

Kowalski ignored the barkeeper. "Skipper, the false lead took us northeast from Panajachel to Tactic because it sounded plausible and we all agreed to split the team. Xochi played to her strength and kept up the charade of - "

"No. No. She was handicapped because she couldn't speak and I let her down. I let Rico down, too, because I ought to have put the kibosh on their love affair. Now he's no good."

This wouldn't stand. "You and I know that's incorrect. He's grieving more than we are, true, but he's made of strong stuff."

"So you think he'll pull through?"


	3. Chapter 3

Kowalski felt he had to step up to unofficial morale officer. The team needed him to, Skipper needed him to, and Xochi would have wanted her death to provide meaning.

"I know he will," he said stoutly.

Then he caught sight of Tracy dancing with a female Humboldt penguin wearing a barracks cap. The barkeep arched a brow at them.

It was time to leave.

They wound up in an alley between two hotels for humans. Kowalski surmised that sailors from ported ships rested in the wee hours in the human hotels to prep for early departures. For himself, he felt like he never needed to sleep again.

Once in the shadows, Skipper acted fast. Kowalski kept his eyes open as Skipper dove headfirst into kisses because Kowalski planned to catalog his experiences to form hypotheses when his senses cooled. He turned his eyes upwards. How bright the stars glimmered through the racing clouds on high! Rain puddles reflected many points of light now that the typhoon's aftermath subsided. He straddled his legs to shorten his greater height so he could bump crotches with Skipper. The evening promised untold delights to savor.

The first earthquake tremors rippled the sparkling pools and Kowalski took notice as he broke from the kiss. Skipper whined when Kowalski pulled back his head to rest it on Skipper's shoulder to watch the stars dancing on the turbulent waters. The commander pushed Kowalski against the brick wall again as he leaned in for more kisses and ended Kowalski's daze.

"Earthquake!"

The two moved together with their backs flat up against the wall, sidling in fluid motion to a place of relative safety. They had been dependent upon and trusting each other with their very lives for longer than they wanted to think about, Kowalski considered, as he indicated a doorway ten feet down the alley to take cover in and how lucky was that?

They had been enjoying a boisterous, obscene good time between a crumbling brick hotel for those traveling on the cheap and a more upscale combination hotel and restaurant. In fact, their wanderings through the town led near the sea, because wasn't that the _slap slap_ of waves against riprock? How could he not have noticed? How could Skipper not have noticed instinctively that fifty feet beyond the end of the alley, the susurrus of waves arose there from the edge of a cliff? Did the coke fire their senses but only for each other? What was the cost of dismissal of the outside world? Did he ever want to pay that price again?

Another tremor and the framing of the more unstable building swayed into their alley to the shouts of awakening humans. The rippling earth pushed bricks and plaster down onto them and the doorway proved unreliable as a shelter. Coughing from the mortar dust, they willed gravity not to work because the slipping tectonic plate twitched the two buildings forty more feet towards the cliff. Now they nearly overhung the ocean thirty feet below. Another tremor rumbled and collapsed the framing of the poorly constructed hotel in upon itself. As tops of the walls kissed each other and the stars disappeared, the two were thrown tightly together into a small air pocket.

Skipper's cheek was flattened against the alley wall, which still held, although both their earholes rang with sounds of asphalt breaking, water pipes gushing, and cracking strategic supports of buildings up and down the street. His flippers were flung out, their tips leveraging against the wall.

Kowalski had been flung up against the bird's back; his pelvis nestled up under his commander's buttocks.

The two huddled closely together as they waited out whatever might follow the unexpected, hoping that the walls of their prison would hold and that this wasn't the precursor to an all-out catastrophe.

When groans and cracks and snaps lessened, Kowalski spoke: "Are you all right, Skipper? Anything broken or hurting?"

"No, Kowalski, I seem to be in one piece, but you've got me pinned to the wall. Can you give me some slack?"

"I don't think I can. I have something biting into my back behind me here."

"Well, you have something pushing at me down here, you horny Gentoo."

"Sorry, it must have been our talk and me thinking of how I stuck it to Tracy." At a _hnh_ from Skipper, Kowalski added, "Naturally, the kisses helped."

The structure shifted, and the two felt it totter toward the ocean below.

"Hold on, Kowalski! Can the walls possibly last? Are we gonna die crushed in here?"

Kowalski's chest was heaving between Skipper's shoulder blades from fear for their predicament, and his flippers wrapped around the bird's chest, his flippers buried themselves in the pecs that tensed with the need to move. He couldn't help it; he was still horny from their earlier conversation, and his cock was filling and pushing between butt cleavage. The coke's effect lasted longer than he thought it would; he filed away that fact.

"You know, Skipper," he said, his voice shaking, "This could be it for us. These could be our last moments." One of his flippers slowly slid down the bird's abs and belly and settled on the penguin's cock, which responded immediately. Skipper must have used the last line of coke, right, since he'd been adamant on buying some? Or did he abstain? Or offer it to Tracy in a gracious and grateful gesture? The coke accounted for his ready response to all this, right?

"Yes, I know, Kowalski. But what are you doing? Stop -"

But Kowalski didn't stop. He buried his face insubordinately in the hollow of Skipper's neck and kissed and sucked at him there. He stroked Skipper's cock and caressed the slick knob until Skipper stopped fighting him and started rocking in time with Kowalski's stroking.

Kowalski brought his left flipper down, ran it where buttock joined thigh and reconnoitered the area. He brought his flipper up, spit on it a couple of times, and rubbed the wetness into and around Skipper's asshole. He spat again into his own flipper, and he rubbed that into the fluid that was already bubbling out of his eager cock. He placed the head of the cock at the asshole and just let it bump there, slowly at first, with a lot of objection and huffing and puffing from Skipper.

But as Skipper shot off his own load down the cracked brick wall, he arched his back, lifting his pelvis against Kowalski, giving him wider entry. Instead of his earlier ambitious target, Kowalski's length slid up between Skipper's corded thighs and, grasping hard enough to bruise Skipper's hips, Kowalski started pumping hard. Loose plaster dust rained upon them as they swayed back and forth and clashed against each other. The whatever-it-was smacked him in the back at each thrust but he was so stoked he didn't even wince.

Skipper's objections and pants and huffs had slowly changed into sighs and moans and dirty talk of being plowed thoroughly and loving it. Kowalski treasured the term of endearment _pendejo_ , cooed as it was in tones he'd never heard from his sir.

At first Kowalski just saw this as a relief of the stress of the moment. But as the helmet of his cock was welcomed by Skipper's body and drawn in, Kowalski began to think this was almost as good as braaping Tracy. The head of his cock rubbed against the underside of Skipper's cock and the commander shuddered and moaned. Kowalski's flippers went to Skipper's hard belly and followed the muscled midline up his abs and to his chest, curved but flat, cleft but hard, pecs standing out taut as they leapt like eels at Kowalski's touch. The brick wall grated against the backs of his flippers but he didn't mind losing feathers when he was gaining much more.

Kowalski, the worshiper of Science, realized that this body of Skipper's was even more of a turn on than the soft curves of any female he had ever been with. His flippers traveled down to Skipper's waist and hollowed hips and rounded, but solid butt cheeks. Down to those hard, heavily muscled thighs. His cock leapt with joy at the new-found intoxication of the swaying of the musk-smelling body under _his_ command, responding to him as females rarely did. He realized that this, in fact, was a whole lot sexier than braaping Tracy. Skipper's body was tighter than anyone else's and the tendons in his thighs flexed, sending Kowalski into ecstasy and lengthening him as females had never done.

Skipper reacted to the ever-deepening plowing and pumping by turning his face to Kowalski's as much as he could and going into a deep, moan-filled sideways kiss. Kowalski divined that Skipper knew nothing had gone to the center of him and stirred his desires as did this churning cock of Kowalski's. After a tiny aftershock garnered them more wiggle room, Skipper snaked his flippers down and behind Kowalski and dug them into his ravisher's butt cheeks, holding him in, willing him to plow even deeper, giving permission to fountain come up as far as his belly.

Through their panting and moaning, they heard human voices and the sound of wood and bricks being thrown aside. Salvatruchan Spanish blended with Mexican, Tican, Chapin and other varieties that Kowalski could not identify.

"I think they've found us," Skipper moaned. "I think they're coming for us. I think they're coming for us."

"And I think I'm coming too," Kowalski muttered through a clinched beak. And he did just that, shooting off inside Skipper's crotch in heavy and deep spasms. This had been a whole new, rock-busting experience. He now thought he could get it up for a hottie like Skipper tonight before he could for Tracy if she were here, drenched in My Sin perfume and covered in sparkly violet eyeshadow.

The two adjusted their feathers as best they could and waited. The sounds of human voices came closer, calling names, calling encouragement to each other, calling again and again in languages too numerous to list. Wooden supports creaked and cracked, mortar dust drifted over them again and the whole town flickered its lights once before all power faded. They had been saved. It was the good guys, the good humans who risked aftershocks to clear the damage away in search of whoever they could rescue under black cloudy skies.

"We'll not mention this to the others, I don't think," Kowalski whispered to Skipper as they skittered into cover in the darkness.

"No, for sure not," Skipper answered.

"But I won't forget this," Kowalski said.

There was a moment of silence.

"Want to go out again after we clean up?" Skipper ventured. "Maybe after a quick dunk in the ocean?"

"Sure. And then we'll have to go looking for someplace real private like." Kowalski couldn't stop Johnson and Manfredi's speech patterns even if he wanted to.

"Rightarooney."

IOIOIOIOIO

IOIOIOIOIO

"So, sir."

"So, Kowalski."

"Shall we, er, return to the default setting on our personal and professional relationship?"

"I think it's best. Go with what you know, right?"

"Indeed."

They had told each other they couldn't wait to try something new, but their courage failed them as it never had on any mission and all that resulted was a mutual flipper job behind a tower of crates.

Life took over when they rejoined their team after the coke high faded, reports were made to the Big Boss when they hit the U.S. and protecting the zoo filled their days.

A followup mission to Retalhuleu in search of more intel three weeks later cost the lives of Johnson and Manfredi in an utterly stupid way.

"Ma'am, mark my words, I will never go back to Guatemala," reported Skipper via Skype the day after the four returned to Central Park Zoo.

The Big Boss nodded. "I understand. I've got you in mind for a deep cover solo assignment in México."

"I'm up for it."

IOIOIOIOIO

The End.


End file.
